No, not here.

Ever get the feeling you're just on the wrong side of the window? The whole of the rest is yours but that's because you're locked out of what was to be your haven. That feeling, you know.

Sunday

Ridiculous one at that. Woke up at 7 in the morning as if to start digging organs, the bones disappearing to make way.Wash clothes,wash the money in the pockets, wash the shopping lists, wash the tobacco.Put on my headphones and the song screamed, higher! Higher! I wanted to wear hunting boots and take off, travel guide left behind in the cocoon.I wanted to levitate, watch a movie, say- 'I'm going to tell you why and you will believe me'. Or juggle. Or build a living room full of wine, dancing, making love on the carpet. Or the couch. Or at the foot of the TV cabinet while the Sensex reaches its highpoint. Or throw myself at the black and white on the soft-board knowing that I am going to be closer than this.

But all I did was not get drunk or jump off a building onto a tampoline or fix the petrol issue.

But my hair, he said, was like his face was on fire.

Oh, that can't be a good thing.

Why not, he said, and that was that.

I have So Much More to tell you.

Wake up to a morning full of the feeling of letting go. If it wasn't pleasant, you must've been indifferent but there's always that feeling in your stomach- of having missed breakfast again, a starving chuckle. Suddenly you start trying hard to get your punctuation right and you realise you've killed it in your head because it had too many groping hands.I have done this with a volcano on my face,feet webbed, the weight of an earthquake in my chest.But I have to tell you, this is not important.Your hands flow like slow motion autumn leaves and that solves everything.

I'm exhausted.

Because loving people is tiresome when they’re so busy being rooted to humanity that they’re losing the essence of it.

You can really see people when they sing, I can't see no one otherwise Its like I'm soulblind.

About the Younger Man / Conjugal extinction

Dear Mister Processed Nectar,


Our love was a ritual, like a head placing itself
inside an oven each day. One day, I passed. Another day and
more often, you did.

My forests are now one wild village and they speak the same

language; there's more wind between the trees, and rivers

when we arrive.

For his love is but a perfect cigarette burn; he's taught me to blow
rings and go around them too.

always, first times.

such a perfect perfect day. even ends with me being handed the exact piece of clothing i need the instant i reach into my whirlpool of a wardrobe. yes, that's more of a miracle than anything preceding it, but thank god for the rest too.


:)

My instincts called me for a drink and then abandoned me.

In my head I was reading a manual on

How to make Texas feel like a water-balloon, but

that's not where I live. Some days,

 you wake up feeling like red meat, the salt burning

down into you. You strip yourself bare of what remains 

of your skin to make it go away and it returns on

a sledge, down your chimney, into your socks. You 

know then- feet failing, spine dissolving, head in your hands

like the seashore you once tried to snatch at and

store for later- that everything leaks. In my head, this isn't it, red meat is
rot so lets switch to green. We can move to another city,freshly 

brewed,all the splashing and its still not Texas.My myths fail to

pull me down or even take me to the 8th floor terrace

again, my myths are starving and 

soon they will let up.My fingers, my nerves,my art,ditto.Some days

you are the last hospital wing, housing too many, the stench

of some poisoning the rest.You're a Saturday smile before 

the wasting away,that's when you break. Some days you

know your next move and then you switch positions, unaware

of still being in the same skin that crawled back on anyway.

Observation

From what I see, we (though I cant be sure if its the same with everybody) spend our lives gradually unlearning the heart of every matter.

Bluebird.

Once upon a time I had good, long hair. And then it reduced to 'once upon a time'.If you look at my face now, you would be looking at the face of the dying. This one time, I had a vision where I was a madman looking for a jutting piece of rock muttering 'am I really that lonely yet?' Rainclouds formed, my hands were covered in glue-skin that was safe to peel. I tried saying, 'Hello, I have a new haircut, and man do I look like a boy, would you let me sit, I think I can leave when I must, oh yes? I must hear you sing then!' I tried saying more but it only came out of my mouth to form a puddle at my feet, inviting me to drown in it. The rainclouds, the puddle, and then the fucking birds. What do you do then, where will you run, they can fly you know. You want to punctuate each sentence with panic, but how do you even do that? How do you grab your towel and how do you reach for the door? Your limbs are lighter already, the updraft under your extended glue-skin has taken you and you're with them now, not one of them, just lighter bones and still an eye out for a jutting piece of rock with a spot of sun.

Girls looking for themselves in your eyes

sometimes, sometimes my mind is too strong
to carry on.

hello! to high and dry

MYYYYYYYYYYY HEAVY HEART
SINKS DEEEEEEP
                            DOWN
                                          UN-
                                                  DER

you.

But the birds stop singing too.

moments of despair and ugly art and.

and i wonder what person from Singapore reads my blog. all these cruel people, never leaving comments. :/

My cities turn blue

and are failing without you

what is that bad picture

one of these days, though

 I'll walk you past these windows,

 

I'll walk you through the trees;

I'll walk you to wherever 

gets you weakest in the knees.

i've been a drooling, irritable, sick and difficult 5 year old lately.or like im nursing withdrawal symptoms like a clutz. nautanki, bilkul. if i were to say something to my mom now, i'd prolly say KIMMIN CHAI.kimmin debe,kimmin? ekta duto teente paanchta chota? and i think i'd just scream at everything else. i dont have kimmins, keede kha gaye mere kimmins. kinta paisa waste. kitne kimmins waste. kimmins are kishmishes for the 5yearoldme. kimmins are raisins and i want raisins and mango juice for 7 bucks. or 5. these things disappear exactly when you need them to be around and suddenly, you go from being Clementine to Joel. pulling at memories where you can hide what you needed to let go of a minute back. but im not running fast enough, all this sickness and tiny 5 yearold legs and no raisins what to do kya karoon

i just realised that what i want to do/have/feel and what i should do/have/feel had never created a conflict until i started taking my own decisions. what is that, immaturity?

is there a love so strong that you'd love all wrong?

and the birds are singing...

I can't control you, i dont know you well. These are the reasons i think that we're ill.

.. to calm us down.

(drawing after months, inspired by the song My Manic and I by Laura Marling. Thank you Chiquita.)